before half his sentence had expired, he sailed for a penal colony, a man
with a hot coal in his bosom, a creature imbittered, poisoned; hoping
little, believing little, fearing little, and hating much.

He took with him the prayer-book his mother had given him when he was
ordained deacon. But he seldom read beyond the fly-leaf. There the poor
lady had written at large her mother's heart, and her pious soul aspiring
heavenward for her darling son. This, when all seemed darkest, he would
sometimes run to with moist eyes. For he was sure of his mother's love,
but almost doubted the justice of his God.



CHAPTER III.


MR. WARDLAW went down to his son and nursed him. He kept the newspapers
from him, and, on his fever abating, had him conveyed by easy stages to
the seaside, and then sent him abroad.

The young man obeyed in gloomy silence. He never asked after Robert
Penfold, now; never mentioned his name. He seemed, somehow, thankful to
be controlled mind and body.

But, before he had been abroad a month, he wrote for leave to return home
and to throw himself into business. There was, for once, a nervous
impatience in his letters, and his father, who pitied him deeply, and was
more than ever inclined to reward and indulge him, yielded readily
enough; and, on his arrival, signed the partnership deed, and,
Polonius-like, gave him much good counsel; then retired to his country